Peaches and Cream and Childhood Dreams
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: Sherlock's meeting John's parents. If only it were as simple as that. Rated M for the occasional f-bomb and lots of angst. Trigger warnings will be posted when necessary.
1. Prologue - Sherlock, My Parents

**Peaches and Cream and Childhood Dreams**

John wasn't particularly looking forward to it.

Sherlock was sort of looking forward to it.

They were both cloaked in silence on the plane ride to Ireland. They both had different reasons for going to Ireland; Sherlock had a case and John had a family reunion. A bona-fide family-fucking-reunion. Not that he'd said that in so many words to Sherlock and he certainly had put on an act when he had been talking with Harry, but his attitude was pretty sour about the whole thing.

Probably the worst part was that Sherlock was going to be staying with them. Not that John expected Sherlock home much, not with a case, but he didn't particularly want Sherlock around his parents, or worse, his sister.

Still, it was going to be awkward as hell and John was _not_ looking forward to it.

"John," Harry greeted, when she opened the door. "You're late! I thought maybe you weren't coming!"

The subtle look in her eyes that John had come to know well through the years was there, and the glass of wine in her hand was a huge tip-off. She'd been drinking... still was, in fact.

Sherlock shared a glance with him, raising his eyes as he followed John into the house.

"Sherlock's here on a case, so we were gathering evidence," John said, setting his suitcase down. "I didn't figure it much mattered. We're here for the weekend, after all." He pulled his coat off.

"Where will I be sleeping?" Sherlock interrupted. "I'm due at a meeting with the cinema's manager in a half hour."

"With John," Harry said cheerfully.

John fixed her with a look. "... Excuse me?"

"There's no other beds!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, where's your room?"

"Now hang on!"

"Never mind, I'll find it." Sherlock strode off down the hall.

"Sherlock!" John hissed, starting after him.

"John!"

John glanced up as his mother walked around the corner. "Oh... hey, Mum," he said weakly.

"We haven't seen you in forever," she said, wrapping her arms around him.

John hoped that he was appropriately relaxed enough to let his nerves get by without notice. He awkwardly gave her a one-armed hug in return before pulling away. "I've been busy. Sherlock and all..."

"The consulting detective? How is that going?" asked his father, coming around the corner as well. "Still the pompous bastard you said he was in the blog?"

John resisted the urge to sigh. They _were_ his own words, after all. "Pretty much, yeah."

"He's a bad influence," Harry said. "I don't like him."

"Yeah, well, I know you don't," John muttered. "Back in a moment. Have to discuss the... case," he said lamely, picking up his bag and striding back to the extra bedroom. "This is _not_ going to be fun," he muttered, throwing his bag on the bed.

Sherlock glanced up from inspecting an email on his laptop. "What? Oh, family, yes, boring." He looked back at his laptop. "Be back later." He clapped the laptop shut and left it on John's bed before striding out with a flourish of his coat.

"Oh. Excuse me," Sherlock's voice drifted in from the hallway.

"I don't believe we've met."

John swore and hurried back into the hallway. "Sherlock, this is my father, Harold. Dad, this is Sherlock..." he trailed off.

"Yes," Sherlock said, like he had deduced this (and he probably had). Still, he took Harold's hand to shake it before slipping away. "Back later."

"Be careful," John said. He looked away from the place Sherlock had vanished around the corner and back to his father. This was incredibly more awkward than he thought that it would be. "So... uh, how have you been?"

"Good, John. Really good. You?"

John nodded. "Better. Since the war and everything..." he trailed off again.

Harold nodded.

John shuffled his weight awkwardly before pointing to the bedroom. "I'm just gonna unpack a bit..."

"Yeah, right, great. We'll pour you a glass. Linda wants to hear about what you've been up to with that flatmate."

"Yeah, good. Sounds good." John shut himself back in the extra room, moving Sherlock's laptop to the dresser. He sighed and flopped onto the bed, closing his eyes.

The bedroom door opened. John hastened to sit up before he realised that it was only Sherlock back.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows as John flopped back onto the duvet, putting his arm over his eyes. "I forgot my mobile." He rummaged through the duffel bag he had brought for a moment. "Did you want to come with me?"

John sat up again. "Yes. Please."

Sherlock looked at him intently for a moment, sliding his mobile into his pocket.

John sighed and looked away, getting to his feet. "I thought you had a meeting."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment before nodding. "Yes."

John sighed. He had a feeling that Sherlock was picking up on things that he didn't want him to, so he was going to do the best thing to remedy it: put Sherlock on a case and let him run wild.

"Off out, sorry, Mum!" he called as he hurried down the hall. "We've got a lead on our case! We'll be back ASAP!"

Without giving them a chance to respond, he was out the door with Sherlock at his side.

It was a forlorn hope to avoid them altogether, this being a family reunion. But he would postpone the inevitable, the awkwardness and the upset for as long as he could.

Besides, this was his life now. The past was the past and that's where it should stay: firmly behind him and in the shadows.

* * *

**Warning warning! This is not a snow white, fluffy story. I'm not going to tell you _why_- I'll leave you to your deductions until it becomes more clear- but I will state at the beginning of a chapter is there is any reason for angst/trigger warnings. With that in mind, you can decide if you want to read this, but I'm not going to state the reason for the warning and spoil the plot.**

**Anyway, this is just the Prologue. There will be more detail next chapter. I will warn you now: this may be considered slightly (_only_ slightly, on the basis of a caring!Sherlock) OOC at some points. Sherlock appears to be as much as an arse in the previews for Series Three as he does in One and Two, so I won't mess with it too much. Personally, I think a subtly worried Sherlock is lovely.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Your theories are, as always, interesting for me to read and fuel for a quicker update. :) Thank you!**


	2. Blood Does Not Always Signify a Bond

They didn't make it back to the house until nine o' clock that night. They ended up solving the case and John had insisted on the nearby pub, settling down with a shared fish and chips between them. Sherlock ended up wolfing down most of it. John mostly drank. He didn't intend to end up drunk, but he fell against Sherlock when they were in the cab and giggled about it a bit, and realised that he must have drank more than he thought.

Sherlock just sighed, shaking his head as he looked towards the window. "You're drunk."

"I am not drunk," John retorted.

"Fine. You are slightly inebriated. Does that suit you better?"

John tried to think. "I think... Wait. No?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I am not explaining your behaviour to your parents."

The idea of this sobered John up more quickly than time or sleep or coffee could. "Right." He sat up straight and ran his fingers back through his hair, fixing his coat.

"What is it about your parents that makes you act so differently?" Sherlock asked, looking at John again.

John jolted, looking up at Sherlock. "Huh?"

"You sit up straight, you straighten your clothes, fix your hair, make yourself proper when they're mentioned. You've been tense ever since the phone call with your sister, and I can tell that by the tension in your neck and back, not just your eyebrows. You avoid the topic but you've been thinking about it ever since you found out and you haven't been thinking about it with kind thoughts. Not to mention the interrupted sleep pattern lately and the fact that you didn't notice the blonde woman at the pub watching you is proof that something is bothering you. The only logical solution is that there is something about your parents that makes you uncomfortable."

John's nostrils flared in irritation but he had nothing to say to that.

Sherlock didn't say anything else, but John was aware of his eyes on him the rest of the cab ride.

* * *

"This is uncomfortable," John muttered.

Sherlock shifted his arm beneath his head. "I do believe I should be the one saying that."

John stared at the ceiling, trying in vain to fall asleep. It was just... weird to have Sherlock in his bedroom. Albeit if he was sleeping on the floor.

Sherlock rolled onto his side, joints protesting as he moved. "... It really isn't comfortable, John."

John sighed. "Well, what am I supposed to do about it? Harry's on the sofa and there's no other bedroom."

"I could sleep on the sofa and your sister could sleep with you."

"That's worse than sleeping with you," John muttered.

"Why? She's your sister," Sherlock retorted.

"And the only time we have a civil conversation is over the blog or a phone call. Usually it's not even civil," John muttered under his breath.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Give me another blanket. I just don't see why I can't sleep with you."

John sighed and pushed the blankets off, stepping over Sherlock's mess of blankets and the detective's gangly form. "Because, we're at my parent's house, Sherlock. And while _we_ know that we're... that _I'm_ not gay, I don't care to have my Dad walk in on you _cuddling_ me," he said, throwing another blanket to Sherlock.

"I do not cuddle."

"Please. You clung to me like a bloody octopus after that incident with the Thames." John threw a pillow down from the closet.

"My body temperature was low; it was the only logical solution." Sherlock shuffled around a bit and situated the pillow.

John crawled back into bed, sighing. "Yeah, whatever. Go to sleep. It's going to be a long weekend."

Sherlock didn't respond, but simply stared at the ceiling unblinkingly.

* * *

John woke up with a start, drenched in cold sweat and his heart pounding wildly. He sat up and groped for the lamp, flicking it on. There was a soft noise of distress from somewhere near the floor and John leaned over to look.

Sherlock flung his arm over his eyes. "Warning would be preferable next time," he said dryly.

"Why aren't you asleep?" John muttered, trying to chase the dreams away from his mind. "It's gone... half past four already."

"Thinking," Sherlock replied.

"Think about sleep," John muttered, kicking the blankets away. He was drenched in sweat and there was no way Sherlock had been oblivious to the whole thing. Of course the nightmares would return on the night where he _knew_ (for a _fact_) that Sherlock was in his room. "You had a case. You should be tired."

"I should be, shouldn't I?" Sherlock echoed.

"Go to sleep," John said, as firmly as he could manage. He left the room and went to the toilet, closing the door behind him. He flicked on the light and splashed a bit of cold water on his face, leaning forward to rest his arms on the sink.

By the time that he returned to the bedroom, Sherlock was curled into a huddle and his breathing was evened out. John just crawled back into bed, after changing his shirt, and struggled to find sleep again.

Sherlock lay awake, feigning sleep, staring into the dark abyss under John's bed when he was sure that his troubled flatmate had dropped off.

* * *

"Where were you, John? You didn't get back until late," Harold said, forking a breakfast sausage.

"Got back 'round nine-thirty, actually..."

"He was out gallivanting with Sherlock," Harry said.

"We were not _gallivanting_," John muttered, swirling his toast in his egg yolk. "We were solving the case that brought Sherlock up here."

"What was it about?" Linda asked pleasantly.

"Serial murders, multiple amputations of men's-"

"_Sherlock_," John hissed, aiming a well-deserved kick at his flatmate's shin. "Sorry," he said, louder. "Ignore him. Was a serial killer, wasn't that exciting."

Sherlock _hmm_ed, still not looking away from his phone. He'd been glued to it since Linda and Harold had insisted on him joining them for breakfast. He didn't socialise, he didn't eat, he didn't look up from the phone. So yes, John thought the kick was deserved.

Included was the fact that the bloody detective had kept him up most of the night just by being in the same room. He had half expected him to pull the warm water trick, or draw on his face with a permanent marker, but then he had realised that if Sherlock _had_ wanted to do that, Sherlock would have done it already. It hadn't really relaxed him.

"Do you work with many... serial killers?" Linda asked timidly.

"Not enough," Sherlock muttered.

"_Yes_," John said loudly. "Well, no. Sorry. We've had a few... none particularly memorable, though."

He opted not to mention his and Sherlock's very first case together, nor the other times that they had gotten in trouble with serial killers. Like Jim.

"John, where's your bathroom?" Sherlock asked abruptly, looking up. "Not feeling well, I'm afraid."

John stared at him. There were no lines of pain, no noticeable change in pallor, no sweat or shivering, nothing. Sherlock just stared back at him calmly, his eyes keen and unreadable.

_Slimy git_, John thought bitterly, _he's not ill at all._ He knew that Sherlock knew he knew where the bathroom was- of course he did; they'd been there a whole day almost already- but John pointed to the hall all the same. "Second door on the left. One across from ours."

It was an out, John knew, a reason for Sherlock to excuse himself from the table so he didn't have to listen to them talk or fuss about eating. He wished he had his own out.

"Thank you." Sherlock stood fluidly and strode from the room.

John watched for any sign of dizziness or nausea, anything that would have signified that Sherlock was sick, but he found nothing. Clearly faking, then. Maybe they would both come down with an imaginary cold... Or a fake case of food poisoning. It was an idea, John had to admit.

"Is he alright?" Linda asked, looking between the doorway and John.

"What?" John glanced back at her. "Oh, no, he's fine. He's... he does terrible with flights, you know. Upset stomach and all. Lingers a bit," he lied.

"Oh. Would he take something for it?"

John- while tempted to say _yes_ just to spite the bastard for leaving the table- shook his head. "No. He hates doctoring things. Medicine included."

"And he gets along with you?" Harold asked, eyebrows raised.

"I just try to ignore my instincts and let him run wild," John said, munching on his toast. "And catch him when he collapses."

"That doesn't sound very pleasant."

_I had years of practice with Harry_, John wanted to say, but, instead, he just shrugged.

"John's in love with him," Harry said, her tone sing-song, sounding like a young child who was divulging a particularly taboo secret.

John sighed. "_No_. Would you stop it already?"

Harry snorted. "It has to be love for you to put up with that bastard the way you do."

John sighed and put his fork down. "Right. While there's something certainly wrong with him, and probably me for putting up with it, we're _not_ gay. And his name is Sherlock; while he doesn't care what people call him, I do."

He stood up and strode from the room without waiting for a response. He slipped back into his room and closed the door behind himself. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the door with a heavy sigh.

He had no idea what that was. He never snapped when people got on Sherlock's case. If he did, Anderson and Donovan would have been dead a long time ago. But his own parents... John guessed maybe it was stress.

There was a soft noise like a cough and John snapped his eyes open. Sherlock was sprawled on his stomach on the bed, laptop in front of his face. Except, he wasn't looking at the laptop, he was looking at John. Intently.

"Are all of your family reunions like this?" he asked in a monotone.

John sighed. "What family reunions?" He joined Sherlock, elbowing him over until there was enough space to watch the laptop. "Bring up coverage of the game. Want to listen to it."

He knew ignoring the problem wouldn't make it better, but it sure as hell couldn't make it worse, either.

* * *

Sherlock let John take control of the laptop when he joined him with little complaint. He'd already checked his email with no new results and he had better things to think about.

Like John.

Sherlock had recognised the look on John's face when his flatmate had walked into the room. He hadn't known that he was there, so it had been a glimpse straight into John's most private thoughts and Sherlock recognised the look, the body language, the tension. Everything.

It reminded Sherlock heavily of his own childhood and, not for the first time, he wondered what sort of life John had lived before he had joined the Fusiliers.

* * *

**Lots of timeline breaks here, but it'll go more smoothly once the plot is up and running.**

**Poor Johnny. He's stressed.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


	3. Welcome to My Life

**Note: Trigger warnings apply for this chapter. If you are liable to be affected, read with caution or don't read at all. Up to you. :)**

* * *

John dozed, had nightmares again, and woke up. Sherlock was sleeping next to him, head resting on his arm and breathing even. John sighed and managed to extract himself from bed without waking him up. He dreaded having to face his family again, but knew it was necessary... They still had another day that they were going to be spending here, after all.

John used the toilet, brushed his teeth, and rubbed the exhaustion from his eyes before leaving the bathroom.

"John," Linda greeted, looking up the television. "I've just brewed the tea; do you want a cuppa?"

"Yes, sure, thank you," John murmured, "but I'll get it."

"Don't be silly, John, sit down. I haven't seen you in ages; let your mother dote on you."

John sighed but went over to the sofa, flopping onto it. "Er... sorry about earlier," he called. "I don't..."

"Don't worry about it, John. You know how Harry is."

John knew. "I usually don't snap in his defence. He gets crap all the time at home. He's kind of an arse," he admitted.

"I'm sure he's a fine young man, John," Linda said, bringing a cup of tea back. "He seems quite pleasant."

"You haven't heard him talk yet," John said wisely, sipping at his tea. He sighed contentedly, licking his lips, at the familiar taste of afternoon tea. It was a splash of normalcy in an otherwise crazy holiday.

Linda laughed softly. "He's your friend, John. There's something about him you like."

John raised his eyebrows. "We're not a couple."

"I know. Whatever did happen to that nice young woman... Sarah, was it?"

"Sherlock happened," John muttered. "It just wasn't working out."

"Too bad," Linda commented, sipping at her own tea. "She seemed nice."

"She was," John agreed. "But..." He shrugged.

Silence fell upon the room. This was why John hated family reunions. They weren't particularly _close_ and he _loathed_ this awkward small talk. He could wholly understand Sherlock's fascination with avoiding social conventions in this type of instance.

"Is Sherlock feeling better?" Linda asked.

John glanced up. "Hm?"

"He said he felt sick earlier?"

"Oh." John took another drink of his tea. "He's sleeping."

"Are you sure he won't take anything for it? Anti-nausea medication or something?"

John shook his head. "Nah. He internalises a lot of things. Even if it goes against my instincts to say that he can handle it without any medication, he is probably one of the few who can..."

"Maybe that's why he gets along with you so well," Linda commented.

John paused before shrugging.

"Oh, don't shrug at me, John. I don't know how many times you came home from school-"

"Mum," John muttered.

"- after having been picked on by someone at school and you wouldn't say a thing about it. If Sherlock's the same as you in internalising things, maybe you both had similar experiences."

John remained silent.

"And all of that stuff with Harry when you guys were younger... You shouldn't have had to deal with that."

"Probably not," John mumbled, again taking a drink of his tea. He had no idea what else to say, mostly because he didn't want to talk about this.

The front door opened just then and John and Linda both looked up.

"Anyone in?" Harold called.

"In here," Linda said.

Harold pulled off his coat, walking into the sitting room. "Oh, John. Feeling more sociable towards your parents?"

"Harold," Linda chastised. "Get yourself a cup of tea and come in. John's already apologised for that and besides, Harry had no place to say that."

John leaned back with his tea, taking another sip. Just one more day of this and he and Sherlock could go home. Hopefully- although John didn't have much of that hope, to be honest- they could get by without any incident.

* * *

Harry come home plastered that night. John could from the tone and the volume of her voice. John's heart jerked somewhere between his throat and then dropping out from his stomach.

That was never good.

He kicked the blankets away and ran out of the bedroom, trying not to wake up Sherlock.

"What's going on?" he asked, running into the sitting room.

"You can't stay off the booze for _one_ family weekend, Harriet?" Harold demanded.

"Oi, it's not in _your_ interest to tell me what to do, you old-"

John rushed forward, grabbing Harry's arm. "Okay. Okay, everybody go back to bed. Harry-"

"Jonathan, you have to stop sticking up for your sister! This is _her_ life and you are not the one in charge of it!" Harold thundered.

"Neither are you!" Harry yelled.

John knew what would happen before it happened, but he could do nothing to stop it. Harold slapped Harry across the face; she fell back against John's chest and he wrapped his arms around her protectively to keep her from falling.

"Harold!" Linda exclaimed.

"You son of a bitch," Harry spat, spitting out blood.

"Be quiet," John hissed, hauling her back a few steps. "Get back to my room. Go," he said, pushing her slightly.

Harry stumbled, but she went, although not before giving their dad the middle finger and choice words of where he could go.

"Harry!"

John sighed and turned back around to his parents. "Look, she's just-"

He stumbled when the force of the next blow rained down upon _him_. He stumbled back into the wall and slipped, landing on his bum hard. He blinked in surprise and looked up at his father.

"Harold, stop it!" Linda said, grabbing his arm.

Harold shoved her off. "Get off me, woman. If you could control your bastard children, we wouldn't be woken up by your daughter being a whore-

"Hey!" John protested, getting back to his feet. "Don't talk to her that way. And don't talk about Harry that way. I'd like to see the decisions you made in your youth," he snapped, turning and striding back the hall.

He heard his dad exclaiming something behind him, and Linda, too, but he wasn't subject to any more abuse. He went back to his room, closing and locking the door behind him.

Sherlock was wide awake by now, still sitting on the floor, tangled in his blankets. He looked up at John as he entered.

"Where's Harry?" John asked bluntly.

Sherlock pointed to the bathroom.

John turned and strode into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Harry was passed out on the bathroom floor already. John sighed and felt first for a pulse out of habit and then rolled her into the recovery position.

"Sherlock?" he called.

Sherlock appeared in the bathroom after a moment, eyebrow hitching up as he took in Harry and John's appearance under the light.

"Go get me her bag. It's probably in the sitting room. _Don't_ talk to my parents," he added.

He expected a complaint but Sherlock just turned and walked out. John hoped he was going to get Harry's stuff and not going to crawl into his bed while it was empty.

"Idiot," John muttered, pulling Harry's hair back and standing to get a compress.

Ten minutes later, John had successfully changed Harry into her pyjamas that Sherlock found in the sitting room and cleaned her up a bit before tucking her into his bed. He grabbed the rest of the blankets he had in his closet and threw them down next to Sherlock's.

"Give me a pillow," he said without emotion.

Sherlock handed over one of the pillows.

John flopped it down and curled onto his side, putting his back to Sherlock.

Sherlock never said a word throughout this whole ordeal, but John knew he had figured him out. The yelling, the red mark on his face, a possible black eye. It wasn't a difficult leap, John thought, in Sherlock's reasoning. He didn't want to talk about it.

He couldn't fall asleep, either.

It was miserable. He was miserable. His face was still smarting where Harold had hit him. His heart rate hadn't really settled. The floor was cold and uncomfortable and it made his shoulder hurt. He was shaking... He wasn't sure if it was the PTSD rearing up or if he was just cold.

He felt Sherlock moving next to him but he didn't question it. He figured that he was just going to the bathroom until he heard his bedroom door open. Still, it didn't prompt much from him and he just curled up tighter.

The bedroom door opened and closed again, the lock clicking again, a few moments later. There was a slight crunch as something fell to the ground near John's back. He frowned and turned over slightly to see what it was. It turned out to be a sandwich bag of ice. John flicked his gaze to Sherlock, who was crawling back under the blankets.

"Thanks," he mumbled, putting it against his cheek.

There was silence for a few moments as Sherlock got comfortable again, eventually shuffling into silence after the blankets were to his taste.

John flinched when, a minute later, Sherlock's arm fell over his shoulders.

"What..." John gasped, trying to squirm away. "Stop!"

"Clearly, you require physical contact to lull you back into a sense of security after the display in your sitting room. Seeing as how neither of us- save for the drunken relative in your bed- are going to get to sleep if you do not calm down, and since I am the only one capable of giving it to you at the present moment..." he trailed off.

John knew it was logical... a good idea, even. But how could he relax with Sherlock's arms around him? How could he end up falling asleep like that?

"What about Harry?" he whispered.

"She won't be awake until late afternoon and even if she does awaken in the middle of the night, she's far too drunk to remember anything in the morning."

It was a good idea, but it was horrible, too. It was _Sherlock_... But, like Sherlock had said... he wouldn't sleep if he didn't relax, didn't calm down.

"Don't say a word," John muttered, shuffling a bit closer to Sherlock.

"Who would I tell?" Sherlock asked dryly, moving close.

John very clearly felt Sherlock pressing his forehead into the small of his back, his arm draped around his shoulders tightening. It was almost like Sherlock knew what he was doing with the cuddling thing. John just tried not to think that Sherlock _Holmes_ was spooning him.

It was already a bad enough night.

Still, he must have fallen asleep soon thereafter, because when John woke up again, it was the middle of night, he was warm and comfortable, and Sherlock's breathing was even against his back.

John fell asleep again without any trouble.

* * *

**So I always think that Sherlock probably had a not nice childhood, and I think the unspoken assumption is that John's was alright. There's not many stories about John's childhood, at all, whereas there's a _ton_ of abuse!fics for Sherlock. So, I thought, what if John had a horrible childhood, too?**** And thus, _Peaches_ happened.**

**And yeah, they're in bed together again. HAHA shut up. It's a weakness of mine. :p (For the record, this is meant to be a platonic setting, but I know Johnlock shippers read my work, too, so make it what you will, yeah? No bashing.)**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Your opinions and support are lovely. Thank you!**


	4. Kindred Spirits

**Note: Mild trigger warnings- same reason as last chapter.**

* * *

Sherlock was gone when John woke up the next time.

John rolled over to curl into the warmth that had been his bed-partner for the night, only to find him gone. He blearily opened his eyes and blinked into the light of the room; he'd slept late. Harry was still sprawled out in John's bed, thank goodness, fast asleep.

John groaned and pushed himself into a sitting position, rubbing the back of his neck. He was getting too old for this.

The bathroom door clicked open and John looked around, watching Sherlock wrap his burgundy dressing gown loosely around his body.

"Good morning," Sherlock said, grabbing his travel bag off the floor.

"Is it...?" John muttered, wincing as his back popped in the otherwise silence. "Ow."

"It's morning. Whether or not it's good, I guess it remains to be seen."

John yawned and got to his feet. "Are you finished?" he asked, gesturing to the bathroom.

"Be my guest."

"Thanks," John said absently, fishing for his toothbrush and toothpaste. He mentally blanched when he looked into the mirror in the bathroom; he had momentarily forgotten how hard he'd been hit. His eye hadn't gone black, not totally, but there was a yellowish-purple splotch that had formed beneath his eye, in the crease between his eye and his nose.

John sighed and gingerly prodded at the bruise before twisting the cap off of his toothpaste.

He returned to the bedroom in time to see Sherlock's head pop out of the shirt he was putting on.

John raised his eyebrows. "Did you just get dressed in here?"

Sherlock glanced back. "Yes?"

"My _sister_ is _right there_," John hissed.

"She's a lesbian," Sherlock said bluntly, blinking. "And she's asleep."

"What if she had woken up? I don't want her to see you naked!"

"Why not? Surely she has some knowledge of the male anatomy."

"I'm sure she does," John said, "but I don't want _anyone_ in _my_ family have knowledge of _your_ male anatomy."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What's on the agenda, then?"

"Hm?" John pulled out his own dressing gown and searched for a clean shirt.

"What are we doing today?" Sherlock said dryly.

"Oh, I don't know," John muttered. "What time's our plane tomorrow?"

"Three."

"In the afternoon?" John sighed. "We'll go out later. Well, I'm going out. You can come if you want."

"Are we going to eat?"

"I guess. There's probably something in the fridge here if you want something now. I'm going to have a shower."

When he returned, Sherlock was sitting on the floor again, cross-legged, flipping through what appeared to be a-

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, grabbing the photo album from Sherlock's hand and smacking him upside the head with it.

Sherlock cowered and laughed quietly. "I just wanted to see your baby photos. Your Mum had quite the penchant for catching you when you had your trousers off."

John flushed and hugged the album to his chest. "Stay out of things," he said, grabbing his duffel bag and taking it with him to the bathroom.

He dropped the album into his bag and got dressed, returning to the bedroom in a huff. "I thought we could go to the pub. There's a place here that does a really good fish and chips."

"It won't match up to Marylebone," Sherlock muttered.

"Oh, shut up about Marylebone. It wasn't even that good."

Sherlock frowned. "It's delicious. And I get extra portions; you're just jealous."

John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'm jealous of your extra fish and chips. Right. Anyway, we could go to the cinema or something, but I didn't figure you'd want to and I'm not leaving you here."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Don't trust me with your parents?"

"I don't trust my parents with you," John muttered, mostly under his breath. "But what do you want to do?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Great. Really descriptive. You know you don't have to stay in my bedroom."

"I thought you wanted me to stay in your bedroom."

Of course he would figure that out, John thought, even if he hadn't said it in so many words. But it was true. If _John_ pissed off his parents, Sherlock would _really_ piss off his parents.

"Come on." He glanced at Harry. "I shouldn't leave her here by herself, but..."

"She gets drunk all the time by herself," Sherlock reminded.

"Yeah... Well, my parents are still here. Whatever that accounts for." John unlocked his door and opened it, glancing back at Sherlock. "We could jump ship and go back earlier than we had planned-" He stopped as he ran smack in his mum. Sherlock ran into him from behind. "Mum."

Linda frowned. "Oh, Johnny."

She reached out towards him and John stumbled backwards, unable to go anywhere because of Sherlock's form behind him. He staggered slightly and Sherlock steadied him as John mentally berated himself; _stupid, __stupid__. She wasn't the one who hit you, why are you flinching away from her?!_

"Sorry," he muttered, although he didn't step away from Sherlock.

Linda's frown had only deepened, accentuated by a look John knew well from his childhood: pity. "Johnny, I'm so sorry, you know what happens when Harry drinks, I didn't know..."

"It's fine," John interrupted.

"No, it's not," Linda said. "It's just, that Harold, he wants to-"

"Jonathon!"

All three of them looked down the hall as Harold's voice floated down to them.

It wasn't in his nature to blanch, to flinch away from danger, but John admittingly winced at his father's voice. But... he couldn't run away from this. Well, technically, he could, but he was a soldier. He _didn't_ run away from things like this anymore.

He squared his shoulders and marched to the kitchen, meeting his father's gaze head-on. "Yes?" he asked in a monotone.

Harold glanced up from the morning paper. "You're up late."

John raised his eyebrows. "Not really. It's only ten."

"I'm still waiting," Harold said, looking back at the paper.

"... Excuse me?"

"For an apology."

"_What?_" John asked, gobsmacked.

"For talking to me the way that you did," Harold said bluntly.

John stared in disbelief. "... What?"

"I'm not the child in this family, Jonathon," Harold said, looking over his paper again. "You have no right to speak to me the way you did last night."

John had _no_ idea what he was supposed to say. Back when he was ten, maybe this would have worked. But not now. Never now. His father didn't _own_ him anymore.

"Now, Jonathon," Harold repeated, standing.

John took another step back and, suddenly, Sherlock was there, gripping his elbow lightly.

"Leave him alone," he said lowly, stopping next to him.

John glanced sideways, flicking his gaze to Sherlock. His gaze was frighteningly intense.

Harold looked at him. "And who the hell are you?"

"His flatmate and best friend," Sherlock replied dryly. "And you have no right to speak to him in this way. John is a grown man... not your punching bag anymore."

John was frozen. This was literally the worst thing ever; he was caught between his abusive father and his abrasive best friend. And they were fighting over _him_. He didn't know what to say or do.

"I don't think I take orders from you, boy," Harold said, looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "While I agree that I'm certainly young enough to be your son, I- along with John- am going to be forty in a few short years. I owe allegiance to no one, especially not someone like you," he said.

"Sherlock," John muttered.

"You are a guest in my house," Harold said, stopping in front of Sherlock. "You will respect the decisions I make."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, no emotion on his face, before pointedly saying "No, I won't".

There was a flurry of motion. Sherlock must have shoved him back because he stumbled; Harold went at Sherlock and Sherlock blocked the punch, catching Harold's fist and twisting his arm back around his back in a simple, fluid movement.

"Sherlock!" both John and Linda exclaimed.

Sherlock glanced up innocently as Harold struggled to right himself. "Sorry. Should I have let him hit me?"

"Let... let him go!" John gasped.

Sherlock shrugged and let go, taking a delicate step away when Harold lunged at him.

"Harold!"

"Stop it!" John demanded. "You are not allowed to do this anymore!"

"You are still my son!" Harold snarled.

"No! I stopped being your son when you stopped being my dad!"

John didn't know if he imagined how silent it suddenly got, or if it actually did get that quiet. Either way, no one was talking.

"Come on," he said, looking at Sherlock. "Let's just go."

Sherlock looked back at him curiously. "Fish and chips?" he asked, as if nothing had just happened.

"Yeah, sure, whatever." He grabbed his arm and practically dragged him from the room before another confrontation could start.

They put their coats on in silence and were halfway down the street before Sherlock spoke up.

"Well, you have a horrible family."

John laughed humorlessly. "You know, if you said that to anyone else, they would murder you."

"It's obvious," Sherlock retorted. "I've been staying with you. Everyone's screaming and yelling and punching." He flicked his gaze to John's face.

John sighed. "Yes. My family isn't the best. Which is why I don't really associate with them."

Sherlock nodded. "My family wasn't the best, either," he said shortly.

John glanced up. "Don't tell me you went through this, too. I wouldn't wish it on a dog."

Sherlock shrugged. "I won't tell you, then."

John sighed again. "I'm sorry."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, looking at him. "You didn't do it."

"Still." He rubbed his eyes. "I guess my mum was right."

"Hm?"

"You and I really are kindred spirits."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "In the worst ways possible, it seems."

John nodded shortly. "In the worst ways possible," he echoed.

* * *

**And now? Sherlock and John get to have a long talk about their feelings.**

**... Not really, obviously. There's going to be a conversation, though.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you.**


	5. Better Days

"Your parents abused you, too, right?"

It was the worst topic for dinner conversation if John had ever heard one, but the tension was thick in the air and the question had been going unasked for almost an hour now.

Sherlock looked up from his Yorkshire pudding. "They did."

John sighed. "I'm-"

"Sorry, I know; you told me," Sherlock interrupted, taking a bite. "But I don't see what the big deal is. I dealt with it, I got out; I'm never going back."

John sighed again. "It's not always that simple."

"Why shouldn't it be?"

"For you, maybe... but it had to have a lasting impression," John replied.

Sherlock nodded. "Sure. But it just drove me all the harder to do what I wanted to do and to be what I wanted to be."

John raised his eyebrows. "Wow. That's... sentimental, coming from you."

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm not trying to be sentimental. I'm just saying that even if your parents hit you for coming home with mud on your trousers from your classmates pushing you into the mud puddles on the playground, it's not really your problem."

John frowned. He opened his mouth to say something before closing it again. Clearly, Sherlock had taken some abuse from not only his parents, but the people his age as well... It wasn't a surprise, really, but it was strange hearing it come from the detective's mouth. And it was so _dismissive_. John couldn't get over that.

John forked his baked potato absently. "It's why I became a soldier."

Sherlock nodded. "I understand that."

He glanced up. "Do you?"

"I became a consulting detective in desire of showing everyone else up; you became a soldier in order to prove to yourself that you weren't going to be pushed around anymore."

John blinked slowly. Sherlock had, as usual, hit it head on the nose. "I wanted... hm." He trailed off, stabbing his potato thoughtfully. "I wanted to prove to them, well, my dad, really-"

"Obviously," Sherlock added.

"Obviously... I wanted to prove to him that I wasn't everything he said I was. Useless and things. It's kind of stupid, I guess. I never had to prove to anyone that I was worth something. I knew and he was just a... git," he muttered.

"Still is," Sherlock commented.

John laughed slightly. "Yeah, he still is, apparently. That's why I didn't want to come up here," he explained. "Why I've been so moody. I had hoped that things would be different-"

"Things are never different," Sherlock interrupted.

John glanced up and found Sherlock had stopped eating, instead just staring intently down at his pudding.

"I don't really think I need to tell you this, but whatever they said to you or did to you, they had no right. You're..." John cleared his throat awkwardly. "You're a good bloke. I mean... asides from the pompous, showing off stuff you do."

Sherlock cracked a smile and looked up. "No, you don't need to tell me that, John. I know that."

John laughed quietly and turned back to his lunch again. "I don't know. You had a weird look on your face. It didn't look happy."

"Do I ever look happy?"

"... Sometimes," John said shortly. "When there's been a murder."

"Hmmm... True. Speaking of which, I've texted Mycroft and he can get us back on a plane at five, if you want to..."

John looked up so fast his head spun. "Yes!"

Sherlock nodded. "I figured you'd say that. I told him already."

John let out a breath in relief. "Thanks... Sherlock."

Sherlock picked up his fork again. "Not a problem. I know what it's like to want to escape, after all," he said.

John sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Well, at least you don't have to escape anymore. Or, at least, you don't want to escape anymore."

Sherlock nodded. "And you don't have to worry about escaping, either. I think you quite told him off," he said.

"Oh, I've been wanting to do that for _years_," John muttered. "Ever since the first slap."

"So, what changed?"

"Hm?"

"Why did you just tell him off now? Why not before?" Sherlock clarified, watching John intently with his ever-keen eyes.

John shifted uncomfortably under the stare. "I don't know... I'm a soldier. I've been through things... Afghanistan and things..."

"I see."

John didn't know if he did or not, not really. He didn't want to have to explain that maybe this time was different because he had had his best friend standing there witnessing it all. Not only was it embarrassing, humiliating, but the humiliation had turned into strength and... Sherlock was always a warm presence behind him. He trusted him completely... Sherlock might not act like he cared much, but John knew he'd do anything to protect him.

Although, of course, if he admitted that, Sherlock would bristle and spit and sputter like a cat introduced to a bath for the first time.

John didn't mind, though. He didn't want to admit it, anyway. Any of it. It went unspoken, he thought. He hoped.

There was a slight clanking as Sherlock picked up his glass. John glanced up

"To..." Sherlock paused, making a face as he thought. "Better lives?" He said in the tone of a question, still frowning as though the toast was physically harming him.

John laughed once and picked up his glass. "Better days," he altered, clinking it slightly against Sherlock's.

"That works, too," Sherlock said, sipping at his beer as John mirrored the movement.

* * *

**So, my main plot was always that John had an unhappy childhood - I never meant to have a 'quick fix', because frankly, there is no quick fix for something as horrible as that - so this is the final chapter.**

**Not to mention now that I've met Sherlock's parents in _The Empty Hearse_ (and I'm excited to see them again in _His Last Vow_), it's difficult for me to continue to write Sherlock's past being abusive seeing as how his parents (unless one or the other re-married) seem so lovely. (And, plus, since it's Benedict's parents... I just _can't_.)**

**Thanks for the support, as always! I do not own _Sherlock_.**


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